Surprise Party
by otahyoni
Summary: Wes Janson throws Wedge Antilles a surprise party. Set between Wraith Squadron and Iron Fist.


**Note:** Set between _Wraith Squadron _and _Iron Fist_.

**Written for a prompt:** Wedge and either Wes, Hobbie, and Tycho or Wes, Kell, Face, Phanan, and Piggy; Talon Karrde or Booster Terrik; party, Wedge retiring (either really or others joking about it), the sentence "I've got bad feelings about this... again."

Usual disclaimers apply**.  
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* * *

**Surprise Party**

Wedge dropped his face into his hands and moaned.

"Okay, now you're just whining," Wes said.

Wedge heard a slight creak followed by a thud, and his desk vibrated against his elbows. "Get your boots off my desk," he groused. "And I am _not _whining."

"You're whining."

Wedge lifted his face to glare at the pilot seated across from him.

Wes Janson, who had not removed his boots from Wedge's desk, grinned and said, "It's just a party, Wedge. Most people like parties." He paused, studying his commander. "Maybe _you _need to retire, if you're this boring already."

"I'm only a year older than you," Wedge said, frowning.

"Exactly. You're getting old."

Wedge's glare bounced off Wes, having no more effect on the lieutenant than a hand blaster would against the shields of an X-wing.

The party in question was a retirement dinner for General Ratchet, and as Wraith Squadron was enjoying some well-deserved leave, Wedge was not conveniently on the other side of the galaxy. General Ratchet was universally considered a pompous windbag, but as he had defected from the Empire early in the Rebellion, bringing with him several key personnel and some key information (all of which had been more useful than he had ever shown himself to be), he was tolerated.

It wasn't just the idea of getting dressed up Wedge hated, though that certainly contributed. The dinner would be a state affair: interminably long and filled with speeches, food that was too pretty to eat, and polite, empty conversation with whomever ended up on either side of him. In other words, dreadfully dull.

"Why don't you have to go to this thing?" Wedge demanded.

Wes placed a hand over his heart and adopted his best Hobbie expression, eerily good after so many years. "Because I am but a lowly lieutenant, and you are a commander, on the fast-track to becoming a general." He pointed at Wedge, in case there was any confusion who he was talking to.

Wedge frowned at his desk, pushing some datacards around. "Maybe I don't want to be a general," he said petulantly.

"I thought you weren't whining."

"Get your boots off my desk."

Wes slumped lower in his chair, making himself comfortable, his feet now almost above his head. "You know, it might not be that bad. You might get seated next to some rich guy's gorgeous daughter. After an evening of witty banter and humbly told war stories, she'll readily agree to going somewhere more exciting for a drink or two." Wes warmed to his scenario. "And then she'll take you back to her luxurious apartment, with an amazing view and an even more amazing liquor cabinet and one of those giant, round beds—"

As Wes held his arms out in a circle to demonstrate, Wedge barked, "Janson!"

Wes twitched, nearly sliding the rest of the way out of his chair. He glared at Wedge. "What?"

"I don't think any of that is likely to happen tonight."

Wes sighed, as though he were dealing with an obstinate child. "You know, you really shouldn't be so hard on yourself, Wedge. You've got that 'Hero of the New Republic' thing going for you. And you're attractive and intelligent enough."

"Wow. Thanks."

"A little short, maybe…"

Wedge looked for something heavy to throw.

"And if nothing else," Wes continued with a wicked grin, "Ratchet's daughter will be there."

Wedge froze in the process of surreptitiously sliding his datapad toward his lap, his eyes wide with horror. "Sithspawn! I forgot about her."

Wes feigned shock. "The lovely Corinne? How could you? You know she adores you. Or at least, General Ratchet adores the idea of his daughter becoming Mrs. General Antilles."

Wedge closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands against his temples. He shook his head. "No. No, I'm not going. You go. Pretend you're me. Or call the admiral and tell him I've come down with some horrible, violently contagious disease. Tell him my brain is leaking out my ears from too many years in a cockpit. Anything. Anything that will save me from an evening of repeatedly extracting myself from Corinne Ratchet's clutches."

"Now, now," Wes chided. "She's a perfectly decent girl. Other than the teeth that are too big for her mouth and the fact that she laughs like a Wookiee. And there is the slight problem of her skull being completely empty. But really, who wants a scintillating conversationalist of a woman, anyway? Intelligent women are highly overrated." Wes stood and stretched.

Wedge gave him a dark look. "'Scintillating conversationalist'? Where did you learn such big words?"

Wes pouted, but then admitted, "Phanan."

"Get out of my office," Wedge grumbled.

Wes patted him on the shoulder. "It won't be so bad. You'll see. And if it is, come find me after. We'll go somewhere and get you good and plastered so you can forget all about it."

"I've got a bad feeling about this. I'm not going."

"Yes, you are. Stop whining."

* * *

As he walked down the hall, whistling tunelessly, Wes ran calculations in his head.

Ratchet's retirement dinner began at 1900, which meant Wedge would have to leave at 1830 at the latest. Probably 1820, as he hated being late. Wes glanced at his chrono. It was 1540 now. They could probably start setting up at 1730—

A pair of hands fastened on his arm, yanking him into a small side corridor. His other hand instinctively went for his blaster, but not finding it, came up in a fist instead.

Face Loran flinched backward, holding up both his hands. "Whoa, there, Lieutenant. We come in peace."

Wes glared at him and then at Ton Phanan, who stood slightly behind him, smiling serenely. Wes crossed his arms. "Well? I assume you have a reason for snatching me and nearly getting yourselves shot."

"We just wanted to make sure our plans were still in effect," Face said. "You just came from Commander Antilles' office, right?"

Wes nodded. "Everything's running on schedule. We'll start setting up in two hours."

"And our equipment?" Phanan asked.

"Arriving just as Wedge's dinner starts. I estimate we have at least three hours before the dinner's over, and by then things will be far enough along that he'll have no choice but to let things run their course."

Face and Phanan looked extremely pleased with themselves.

In his authoritative voice, Wes said, "Now, go do your jobs and let me do mine."

The two men saluted, grinning, and turned back the way Wes supposed they had come. He allowed himself to smile and resumed his walk to the Wraiths' assigned hangar, whistling.

* * *

The door to his quarters shut behind him, and Wedge leaned against it with an exhausted sigh. He rubbed his face and then straightened, yanking fiercely at the buttons of his dress uniform.

The dinner had been a nightmare from the first moment. Corinne had been seated on his right, and she had monopolized his attention, once forcefully dragging him away from the kind gentleman on his left. Every time he paused eating, she laid her hand on his forearm; Wedge had spent most of the meal with his fork hovering in midair, whether there was any food on his plate or not. He wasn't sure when she managed to eat, as her mouth was engaged the entire dinner telling him insipid stories of the "wild" antics she and her girlfriends got up to while at university. He wasn't sure how frequent bouts of drunkenness and promiscuity were supposed to be attractive—but then, he wasn't Wes.

As soon as the dessert plates were cleared away, and it was announced that drinks would be served—Corinne's eyes lighting up, no doubt at the anticipation of getting Wedge very drunk—he had excused himself, claiming an early training exercise the next day.

The reviled dress uniform shed and banished once more to the recesses of his closet, Wedge left his quarters and headed toward Wes's, intent on taking him up on his earlier offer. He wanted to get very drunk, as long as it was nowhere near the vicinity of Corinne Ratchet.

Wes wasn't home, and he didn't answer his comm. Wedge stood in front of his door a moment, debating whether or not he should try to find Wes in a planet full of bars, and instead decided to wander down to the hangars. If he was lucky, someone he knew—like Hobbie or Tycho—might be around. If nothing else, he could give his X-wing a once-over, something he'd always found soothing, and check in on Gate.

Making a mental note to get a life in the near future, Wedge strolled toward the hangars, stopping at each transparisteel window he came across to stare up at the night sky.

As he neared the hangar assigned to the Wraiths, he slowly became aware of a strange thumping. He could hear it now, but realized when he thought about it that he had been able to feel it through his feet first. The hangars were two levels down. Wedge picked up his pace. As he took a flight of stairs two at a time—too impatient to wait for the turbolift—the thumping began to take on a rhythmic aspect. _Thumpthump thump thump_…_thumpthump thump thump. _Was it an attack? It didn't sound like explosions. Some sort of battering ram?

He burst out of the stairwell at a run, sprinted around the last corner, and skidded to a halt in front of the hangar doors. Through the small window cut out of the steel of the door, he stared in shock into the hangar bay.

It wasn't an attack. It was a party.

The floor was packed with people, most of them dancing. The overhead lights had been turned off, the party lit by the running lights of the ships that had been moved to the perimeter and the spinning strobe lights of some kind of booth to one side of the makeshift dance floor.

His mouth still slightly open, Wedge pulled open the door and slipped inside. He moved around the crowd of dancers, peering at faces in the dark. He recognized several techs and a few pilots from other squadrons. One of the techs—a woman whose name he couldn't remember—squealed and ran up to him.

"Oh, Commander!" she cried, pumping his hand up and down in both of hers. "We're going to miss you so much!" Her chin quivered for a second, and then she darted forward and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. She immediately gasped, covering her mouth with her hand, and with a small "oh!" disappeared back into the crowd.

Wedge stared after her. "I've got a bad feeling about this," he mumbled to himself. "Again."

That's when he saw the sign, illuminated in the purple beam of one of the booth's mini-searchlights.

HAPPY EARLY RETIREMENT, COMMANDER ANTILLES!

He gaped at it for six long seconds, then set his jaw and growled, "I'm going to kill him."

After a few minutes of questioning dancers—and fending off sorrowful congratulations—he learned that Wes had last been spotted near the booth. He shoved his way through the crowd, and as he approached the booth—where the music seemed to be coming from—he saw a familiar head.

The head turned, and Wes' eyes widened as he saw Wedge. He turned, slipping and dodging through the crowd toward the direction of the hangar doors.

"Oh, no, you don't," Wedge said, angling for an interception. He lunged and caught Wes by the hair, then unceremoniously dragged him toward one of the Y-wings sitting against the wall, its nose pointed toward the party like it was observing.

Wedge released Wes with a wrench of his arm, effectively tossing him into the side of the ship.

"Ow!" Wes said, both hands pressed against his scalp. "That was completely unnecessary!"

"What are you doing?" Wedge bellowed. "What is this?"

Wes blinked. "It's a party," he said. "That's obvious. Am I bleeding? That really hurt." He pulled one of his hands away from his head and looked at it, as though checking for blood, then replaced it.

"You've got the hardest head in the New Republic," Wedge said through clenched teeth. "You're fine. _Why are you throwing me a retirement party?_"

"It's a surprise party."

"I'll say."

Wes shook his head, then said, "Well, that too. But there was no way I could commandeer an entire bay for a party without a good reason or authorization from someone much more important than me."

Wedge grunted.

"But tell everyone you're throwing a surprise party for the commander," Wes continued, "and suddenly they're bending over backward to help. Plus, they all keep it a secret." He grinned. "Rather brilliant, I think."

Wedge closed his eyes. "How long did this take you?" he asked tiredly.

"Oh, since we landed in Coruscant. Really, you should blame Face and Phanan. It was all their idea. I just figured out how to make it work."

"I think the blame is squarely where it belongs."

"Oh, good!" a voice called. "The guest of honor is here."

Wedge turned to see Face and Phanan approaching, Kell Tainer and Piggy behind them. Phanan's mechanical eye was nearly blinding in the dark.

Wedge crossed his arms. "I suppose you all helped."

Kell raised his hands. "Not I. I'm just an attendee."

"Same here," Piggy grunted.

Wedge looked at Face and Phanan, who grinned back at him.

"We were the recruiters," Face admitted. "Spread the word, get everyone to show up." He turned and eyed the crowd appreciatively. "I think we did rather well."

"So tell me, Commander," Phanan said. "Did it just get to be too much for you, the pressure of battle?" He leaned forward. "Did you crack?"

Wes snickered, but wisely stopped at Wedge's glare.

"Sad when the best pilot in the fleet has to retire early," Face said. He made several _tsk_ sounds, shaking his head.

"I volunteer to take over command of Wraith Squadron, sir," said Kell.

Wedge stared at them until the smiles slipped from their faces and they began to shuffle their feet like nervous children.

"Right," he said. "First, you 'recruiters' can tell everyone that the party's over. Clear everyone out. Then you'll—"

Quietly, Wes said, "Wedge."

Wedge turned, prepared to yell, but at the serious expression on Wes's face, he followed the other pilot a few meters away.

"What, Janson?" he snapped once Wes stopped.

"It's just a party, Wedge," Wes said in a low voice, one hand still on the back of his head.

"I've had my fill of parties tonight."

Wes continued as though he hadn't spoken. "People need parties. I'm sorry I turned it into a joke at your expense, but really, as long as you've known me, you shouldn't be so shocked. These people needed some fun, so I made some. Let them have it. We'll clean everything up later, I promise. I've got a whole crew of workers who are eager to help. By tomorrow morning no one will even know there were three hundred people down here having a bash in your honor."

After a long moment, Wedge sighed. "I hate it when you make sense."

"It is, actually, part of my job as your executive officer. I just don't need to do it that often."

"You realize I'm going to spend the next few months trying to convince people that I am not, in fact, retiring."

Wes waved the hand not cradling his wounded scalp. "I'll make an announcement or something before we send everyone home." He gave his head one last rub, then dropped his hand. "And hey, I've got a surprise for you."

Wedge looked at him.

"You'll like this one, I promise." Wes pointed toward the music booth. "We had to have all that equipment smuggled in. Guess who was kind enough to transport it for us?"

Wedge tried to squash his curiosity, but it didn't work. "Who?"

"Booster Terrik."

Wedge couldn't stop a smile. "Booster's here?"

"He's in the booth." Wes shooed him away. "Go on, go talk to him. Let me have some fun—or try to, now that you've ripped all my hair out."

The congratulations banner flashed in the corner of Wedge's eye. He pointed a finger in Wes's face. "I owe you for this, and I don't mean that in a grateful way."

As he walked toward the flashing lights of the music equipment booth, he heard Wes's singsong voice float after him.

"Worth it!

* * *

end


End file.
